


Jam Can't Spread No More

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with some plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 00:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18789328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: Mark signs up for a celebrity baking competition for charity. When he and Gary decide to practice making sumptuous red velvet cupcakes in their own kitchen, things quickly get out of hand . . .





	Jam Can't Spread No More

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my WIPs after a certain post on Tumblr reminded me of it. I’m about . . . 90% sure I’ve never posted it before. I wrote this in 2017, which is when the story takes place.

‘It’s not stiff enough yet, Gaz.’

‘What d’you mean, it’s not stiff enough? I feel like I’ve been at it all morning, me wrists are so sore.’

‘Stop moanin’ and put your back into it. I need that to be done quickly, you know.’

Gary let out a short laugh. _Mocking._ ‘Stop being so nervous, will you? It’s making _me_ nervous as well. Christ. You’d think you were making someone’s birthday cake.’

‘Oh shut up, Gaz. I wish you’d stayed in bed,’ Mark jibed, but there was no venom in it. His mouth spread into a cheerful grin, and he kept stirring while Gary worked his own magic on his blue royal icing. How wonderful that they were together, Mark privately thought, baking cakes! 

A beautiful Sunday morning in February, this wasn’t just any ordinary day of baking cakes: Mark was practising for the celebrity edition of a well-known British baking show. He was going to be the best celebrity baker there was!

When Mark innocently said yes to an appearance on the show four weeks ago, his mind went absolutely _wild_ with ideas. He was going to bake three-tiered wedding cakes made of chocolate and red velvet, overly decorated cupcakes, biscuits, Shepherd’s pie, Bakewell tarts and complicated structures made of gingerbread that would withstand even a dozen picky fingers. Even Howard would have to admit he was good, the sceptical sod.

Unfortunately, the producers of the show didn’t think the celebrity contestants would be _that_ good at baking, so the theme of the first episode was to be simple cupcakes and cake pops. They’d have a week to practice baking a dozen tasty cupcakes at home, and then they’d have to do it all over again on camera. Piece of cake. Mark had made hundreds of bakes over the years, so there was very little that could go wrong with twelve relatively simple red velvet cupcakes. He could do this.

Or rather, that was the _idea_. In reality, Mark was rather nervous. Terrified, in fact; so much so that fearful dreams kept him up at night to the point of sleeplessness. In these nightmares, Mark kept being bludgeoned to death by mixers and man-sized spatulas until Gary had to wake him up at four in the morning and convince him that he would not be killed by kitchen appliances. Mark usually agreed, and every night he’d wrap his arms around his lover until he dozed off in a far more pleasant dream where Gary’s dick was made of chocolate.

But the nightmares kept coming, and the simple fact remained: Mark Owen had never taken part in a competition like this before. Ever. In the nineties, he had been too popular to ever be asked for anything, and after the band broke up he didn’t ask to be popular. Nowadays, post-comeback Take That were generally told to shy away from high-profile reality shows unless a few bob could be made from it, and even then the notion was rather frowned upon by their manager. It just wasn’t something that established bands _did_ , especially not when they were still a chart-topping force. They didn’t need it.

But Mark had already naively agreed to doing the show anyway, and he couldn’t get away from it now. He had to go through with it or else face disappointment from everyone else involved.

Of course, Mark had been in the entertainment industry long enough to know that this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, cupcakes or not. He knew it was going to be difficult. Potentially embarrassing, even. He was to be judged on his bakes by two extremely prolific bakers, and if he did something wrong the entire nation would know about it. The lads would make fun of him for the rest of the year – especially Howard, who’d obviously live tweet the entire thing – and he might never be invited to a dinner party ever again.

In the weeks leading up to the competition Mark had become increasingly nervous, and it showed: whereas the boys’ kitchen was usually in a pristine state, today it looked like a whirlwind had gone through it. The kitchen counter was covered in a blanket of baking powder. The trash bin was piling over with shit. Even the tea towels weren’t neatly folded up, and some kitchen appliances like spoons and spatulas had ended up on the floor as though Mark had scattered them in his wake.

Still: a cupcake was a cupcake, and at the end of the day this was all for charity. If Mark could inspire only one person to donate a couple of quid, then his job was done. He could leave his house with his head held high, proud of what he’d achieved. This wasn’t about him.

As agreed in his contract, Mark received the brief for the kick-off episode last Saturday, a week before the episode was to be recorded in a tent in some chilly rural location. He was to make twelve signature cupcakes, a batch of thirty cake pops befitting a children’s party, and a secret third bake that made his pulse quicken just thinking about it. It would probably be something he’d never even heard of.

Take That were in the middle of rehearsals for their upcoming arena tour, so Mark only had his free Sunday morning to put together a menu and practice. Gary had found this quite inconvenient, for he likes cuddling and sleeping in on Sundays, but in the end he decided to come down and help anyway. Dazed as he was with love, it didn’t really matter how he spent his morning as long as it was with Mark.

Once Gary had woken up, wiped the sleep from his eyes and joined an apron-donning Mark in the kitchen, Mark told Gary to start prepping the royal icing for the sugar cookies he’d made earlier. (Gary had protested this, saying that Gary wasn’t meant to help him out with his practice bakes, but Mark just fluttered his eyelashes at him and that apparently did the trick.)

Meanwhile, Mark had given himself the job of putting together a cake mixture. It was an easy enough job: using electric mixers, he had to beat sugar butter, eggs and vanilla in a bowl until it was light and creamy. So far so good.

The kitchen they were in was small: country-house style, with wood panelling painted in light pastel tones. Like the rest of the house, Mark had been in charge of decorating most of it, which meant there were plenty of cabinets and cupboards to put their stuff in. Behind them, a vintage kitchen table took centre stage. Their teacups from earlier were still on it: for Gary, simple Yorkshire Earl Grey; for Mark, a milder melange of camomile. Gary hadn’t had any breakfast yet, but Mark had gobbled a chocolate croissant when Gary wasn’t looking.

They’d been at it for fifteen minutes more. Already, Gary’s wrist was starting to feel quite sore from stirring. ‘Remind me what we’re making, Mark?’

‘Red velvet cupcakes.’ Mark jabbed a finger at the pink and blue cupcake forms next to him. ‘Twelve of them. I’m gonna try out chocolate cake pops when we’re done.’

Gary could hear his own stomach rumble at that. He tried to ignore it. ‘Cake pops? Bit simple, isn’t it?’

Mark crumpled up his nose and laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s what the producers want us to do. He shot a quick glance at a cookbook that had dusted over with icing sugar. He had been reading it from cover to cover for the past few nights, and on a few occasions Gary had had to pry the book from his hands to keep up the magic in the bedroom. ‘I do hope I get through, you know. I sort of wanna do a proper three-tiered cake one day.’

Gary felt a sudden fever of excitement. ‘You mean like a wedding cake? Be fun, that. You could make ours!’

Mark flashed his most charming smile. ‘You’ll have to propose first, Gaz.’

‘I’m trying, but you’re always so busy!’

They both chuckled as though the comment was some sort of inside joke only the two of them understood, and they quietly continued working on their respective tasks.

Gary took the cookies Mark had indicated and started dipping them in royal icing. Mark stirred his batter with even more enthusiasm than before, making his arm feel sore.

Eventually, there came a moment when Gary, who was on a permanent diet of Healthy Things, started eyeing Mark’s batter rather enviously. He was stirring his own bowl of royal icing quite rigorously, sending small clumps of butter flying all over his black T-shirt and exposed forearms. It was quite a sight.

Mark had to withhold a laugh when Gary licked his lips in a hungry fashion. ‘You sure you don’t want to try one of my cupcakes later, Gaz?’

‘I think I’ll gain three pounds if I do, mate.’ Gary had said this very seriously, but Mark still saw his eyes flicking at the bowl again. It was the same look Gary had given _him_ last night, right before they made love in the bathroom: it was that same spark of wanting something he _shouldn’t_. Mark had savoured that look all night; all throughout his morning shower. Gary was bloody hot when his actions were clipped with desire.

The thought made Mark hazard a suggestive gesture. For a moment forgetting his own nerves that the competition stirred up inside him, his eyes glazed over with a coquettish spark; a mischievous glint. Baking might have been Serious Business, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t make it more fun.

Mark promptly stopped what he was doing. He dipped two fingers into the bowl, then licked the batter off his index finger so _slowly_ and _suggestively_ that Gary almost started seeing double.

A strained ‘ _Um._ ’ was the only thing that left Gary’s mouth.

Rendered almost completely speechless, Gary could only stare as Mark licked his other finger, even slower. He almost felt his legs give way when Mark let out a rather superfluous little moan to show Gary just how good his sticky batter tasted.

‘ _Mm._ ’ Mark gave another ponderous hum when he tasted the last remnants of the batter on his tongue. It tasted nice, of red velvet and vanilla. ‘I think you’d like it, Gaz. You _sure_ you don’t wanna try? It’s good, you know.’

Gary had by now turned the same colour as Mark’s red apron. It was bloody adorable how someone who could fuck Mark so _hard_ and _effortlessly_ could still be rendered a big, bright mumbling mess.

‘I‘m fine, Mark,’ he said, so quickly that it might as well have been one word. ‘C-cheers.’

Mark didn’t want to push, but he was going to push. ‘You know what would go great with these cupcakes, Gaz?’ Another taste of the batter. Gary’s eyes were on Mark’s wet fingers the entire time, transfixed. ‘I bet it’d taste great with chocolate cream. You know, the kind that just . . . you know, _slides_ down your tongue. What’d you think, Gaz? I could try that.’

Mark had suggested all this very innocently indeed, but it was still enough to make Gary feel an awkward pulsing in his crotch. This was turning out to be quite the morning already, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.

He tried to focus his attention back on the here and now. ‘W-what did you say you wanted me to do with this, Mark? I don’t know if it’s done yet or not.’

Unfortunately, Gary’s comment lifted the suggestive air almost immediately. The seriousness of what they were trying to do hit Mark like a wave.

He wiped his wet fingers on his apron, took one look at Gary’s bowl and gave it an appreciative scrunch of his nose. It didn’t look great, but he didn’t want to say. ‘I think so. You can use it to decorate the sugar cookies I made earlier.’

Gary raised one of his eyebrows. He was careful not to show any judgment, but he was sure he had heard Mark talking about cupcakes earlier. ‘W-wasn’t the task cupcakes, though?’

‘I’m gonna decorate six cupcakes with cookies and the other six with decorative flowers that I’m gonna make later,’ Mark said quickly, as if that explained anything. He knew it was a bad idea. ‘The cookies are over there,’ he added with a casual wave in the general direction of the kitchen table, not bothering to ask if Gary wanted to help icing six diminutive sugar cookies at all. ‘If you start now, we might finish at the same time.’

Gary accidentally let out a hollow laugh and tried to conceal it with a cough. Trust Mark to start ordering him about! ‘You do realise I won’t be there to help you on Saturday, don’t you, Marko? _You’re_ taking part in this, not me.’

Mark attempted an indifferent shrug of his shoulders, but Gary could tell that some of his earlier nervousness had crept back in.

‘I just wanna see what looks best,’ Mark lied. He knew he must have sounded worried, so he moderated his tone; tried to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal when, actually, it was. ‘If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. I’ll probably end up going with the decorative flowers in the end anyway.’

Gary didn’t feel like questioning Mark’s plan of action, so he earnestly started dipping Mark’s star-shaped sugar cookies into sticky royal icing while Mark decided to give his batter one last stir. Having decided it was at last ready for use, Mark carefully divided the thick, rich batter into twelve blue and pink cupcake forms and licked the remnants of his spoon. He did it innocently this time, and Gary wasn’t watching.

The batter tasted good: it reminded Mark of a cake he’d once prepared for Rob’s fortieth birthday. Rob had absolutely adored the cake and eaten it all in one go. (Ayda helped.) The cake was such a success that a previously sceptical Howard asked for the same favour, and the memory made Mark feel rather nervous. What if these twelve red velvet cupcakes tasted only half as good? What if they’ll end up looking like collapsed little muffins? What if that one birthday cake was no more than a one-hit wonder that he’d never be able to replicate ever again? What if he’d absolutely embarrass himself and leave the competition first?

It didn’t bear thinking about, but the terrible thought penetrated Mark’s concentration anyway. It affected the rest of his actions. He forgot to cross things off his dirty to-do list. He nearly dropped Gary’s precious Death Star kitchen timer on the floor. His hands were shaking by the time he put his cupcakes in the oven, and the batter wobbled terribly in their small paper cups.

Mark helplessly tried to whisper a quick prayer under his breath as he closed the door of the oven, but no sound came out. Even when he tried to coax his body into walking to the kitchen sink to clean the mess he’d made, his legs turned to lead. He stayed rooted to the spot, looking about him listlessly.

This was a man who had no idea what he was doing anymore.

Gary had seen it all unfold in his periphery. His attention left his own side-project in front of him. He was holding one of Mark’s sugar cookies in mid-air, and thick royal icing was starting to drip onto the kitchen counter like sticky blue goo.

Five cookies had already been finished, amateurishly so. They looked like a child had done it.

‘Everything all right there, Marko?’

Mark managed a quasi-casual nod of his head, but his hands belied how he nervous he was feeling deep down. His hands were trembling badly now, and hiding them in the pockets of his apron did not help — the look on Mark’s expressive face had already given everything away. Something was wrong.

By now, most of the icing from the cookie Gary was holding had started to form a little blue puddle next to his bowl. It’d take ages to clean. ‘You sure you’re all right, mate?’

Mark nodded a little too demonstratively and flashed a smile that was nowhere near as good as the real thing. ‘Yeah, of course. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’ He had awkwardly stumbled over these words, and he knew instantly how untruthful he must have sounded. He tried again. He didn’t lie this time. ‘I mean, no. I’m not. I don’t feel all right at all, Gaz.’

These last words had sounded very faint, and Mark found himself feeling sick. He leaned his hands on the kitchen counter. His face had darkened with an indecipherable expression that only few had witnessed and only one understood.

He tried to find the right words, then spoke them aloud. This seemed like such a small thing for his mind to blow up, but then again Mark had always been a worrier. ‘I just don’t want to make a fool of myself, you know. I mean _, you’re_ always on telly, and you make it look easy! I don’t know if I can do that, Gaz. I don’t know if I’m that kind of person who’s popular.’

Gary stopped what he was doing and crossed his arms. It made his muscles stand out against his tight black t-shirt, but Mark wasn’t paying attention to it. ‘You’re afraid people won’t like you.’

Mark smiled wanly, a sure sign something was up. His head twitched to one side, as if he were seeking Gary’s support. ‘Is that wrong?’

‘Not at all, mate. I mean, you’ll be on this show for eight weeks if you’re any good. That’s a long time for people to find out if they like you or not.’ Gary shrugged, hardly flummoxed by his own memory of the reality shows he’d been on. ‘But they will, mate. I mean, I was bombarded with a million tweets about cakes a few weeks ago, people were so excited that you’re joining. My timeline went bloody crazy. I even had to mute a few girls who kept tweeting me pics of their Take That cakes. They were absolutely insufferable.’

If these words were meant to be reassuring, then they hadn’t done the job. Mark did not feel better at all. ‘Then what if I get eliminated on the first show? People will be really upset if I mess up.’

‘You won’t. And _they_ won’t. Trust me, mate.’

Mark let out a sceptical laugh. ‘But everyone else is really good, Gaz. One of the contestants won Celebrity Masterchef last year, remember? I’ll never beat her.’

‘You won’t beat _her_ , maybe, but I bet the others have never baked anything. I mean, you bake so much that it drives me up the bloody wall.’

‘What’d you mean, _it drives you up the wall_?’

‘You could feed an entire neighbourhood, you bake so much.’

Mark looked at Gary fiercely. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘It isn’t, mate, but you always end up throwing half of it away.’

‘Only cos you never try any of it.’

Gary waved a hand at his stomach. ‘I’ve got to take care of me figure!’

Mark resisted the urge to sneer. He looked understandably annoyed. ‘Trying _one_ cake pop won’t kill you, Gaz.’

‘You know I can’t eat anything sweet, especially not with the tour coming up so soon,’ Gary argued. What a strange turn their conversation had taken!

Mark crossed his arms too, standing his ground with stubborn resolve. His sleeves were covered in batter. ‘ _Really_ , Gaz,’ he said. Mocking. _Challenging_. ‘I thought you wanted a cake at our wedding? Cos you’re not getting a wedding at all if food is going to be a problem for you, Mr. _Barlow_.’

Gary looked rather helpless in the face of this outburst. His eyes flicked at the timer on the oven. They still had about eighteen minutes before the cupcakes would be taken out of the oven again, and Gary’s cookies were already finished.

Were they really going to spend the next eighteen minutes arguing about baking? It certainly wasn’t the morning Gary had had in mind, especially not after how wonderful their evening had been . . .

Then an excellent idea came to Gary’s mind. He gave Mark’s dirty apron a quick once-over and turned bright red as he came up with a brilliant way to make Mark less nervous.

Mark thought he recognised the look on Gary’s face. Again, it was the same look Gary had sported last night, right before they fucked, and there was suddenly a different kind of nervousness in Mark’s tummy that he wasn’t sure was entirely justified. He laughed a nervous kind of laugh, forgetting for a moment that they were having an argument. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m just thinkin’ of ways to make you less nervous, is all,’ Gary said, soft and suggestive, and without a hint of an argument. He was still blushing.

Mark felt butterflies at the sound of Gary’s voice. He thought he heard a promise in there, but he wasn’t entirely sure. ‘But you said it yourself, you can’t be there on Saturday . . .’ Mark trailed off uncertainly. What was Gary planning?

Gary’s smirk didn’t fade. There was a strange kind of smugness in his voice when he spoke next. ‘You just work on those decorative flowers of yours, Marko.’

Mark looked at the cookies Gary had barely finished. He hid his confusion as best as he could. ‘But what will _you_ do?’

‘I’ll watch and be a supportive boyfriend, Mark. What else did you think I was gonna do?’

Mark could not find a good reason to argue with this, so he tried hard not to look as nervous as he felt while he quietly started working on his own decorative flowers. In the meantime, twelve promising red velvet cupcakes gradually turned a beautiful beach brown in the oven.

As promised, Gary watched, and said nothing. Throughout, he wore an attitude of quiet amusement.

The process of making the decorative flowers was supposed to be simple but satisfying. Using professional cookie cutters, Mark would cut out six or seven flower shapes from thin red fondant he’d rolled out earlier. He’d then press out slightly larger shapes and push the different sizes on top of each other, and presto. The only thing that remained was pushing up the petals to give them a realistic frilly look. A child could have done it.

Unfortunately, the actual flower-making turned out to be a lot more difficult. Mark’s hands were still shaking in his sheer fear of Getting Things Wrong, and every now and then he would accidentally drop a precious fondant flower on the floor, rendering it useless. Other fondant creations kept being squashed by Mark’s usually so expect fingers. To make things even worse, a more recent attempt looked more like a drunk octopus than a flower and had to be thrown into the trash bin.

After four or five minutes of struggling to make his fondant look like actual flowers instead of misshaped sea animals, Mark had still finished only one. Where there would ordinarily be a cheerful smile on his face, there was now a pained look of concentration. His cheeks were bright red in his effort to bend his petals in the right shape with his shaking fingers, and he had become so engrossed in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t notice Gary moving in behind him.

Mark instantly stopped what he was doing. He uttered a surprised _ah_. Two large hands took a hold of his hips. He felt Gary’s strong form press against his back, his pert arse. The same pair of hands moved towards his flat stomach and disappeared into his apron.

Mark opened his mouth to utter a half-arsed protest, but the words didn’t come, and he didn’t really want to tell Gary to stop either. All he felt was Gary’s mouth as he kissed the back of his head, and his world started spinning. For a second, the cupcakes disappeared into a blind spot in his mind; still there, but forgotten. All there was, was his lover: Gary, doing all the things he was so incredibly good at.

‘Don’t stop,’ Gary urged him. Colour had rushed into his cheeks, but you couldn’t tell by just listening to him. He sounded horny; hot. He wanted this.

There was no need for Gary to whisper, but he did; he spoke the words softly against Mark’s ear, and they sounded so gentle that they tickled and made Mark’s eyes flutter closed. ‘Keep going, Mark.’

Mark let out a nervous laugh. He couldn’t help it; his body made an involuntary roll of his arse, and he felt Gary tense up and then relax again behind him. ‘I-I’m not sure if this’ll help me finish these flowers quicker, Gaz.’ Not a complaint, but an observation. Mark wasn’t complaining at all.

‘You’ve stopped shaking, though.’ Gary planted another kiss on the back of Mark’s head. His hands, inches away from the rim of Mark’s oh so loose pyjama pants, held Mark tight; steadying him.

He tried not to think about Mark licking off his own fingers, but he did, and he had to fight the urge to shove his hands into the front of Mark’s boxers. He felt dazed just thinking about it.

Usually, it was Mark who had to initiate moments like this. But now, it was Gary himself doing the touching; holding Mark tight, caressing him with those uncertain but experienced fingers of his. Gary was always a little flustered, but he was always a good lover.

‘Come on, keep going,’ Gary reiterated when no other words came. He smelled nice, of sugar and aftershave. Compared to Mark’s, his hands were slowly becoming steady; determined. His words were as gentle as the flowers they were trying to make, but they had been sharpened with a suggestive, desperate knife; something to suggest that Gary wanted more than this.

‘Finish what you started, Mark.’

Mark’s answer sounded suggestive. Needy, but still restrained. He puffed up his chest somewhat, straightening his body against Gary’s. He wasn’t in charge, but he wished he was. ‘What if I don’t want to, Mr. Barlow?’

‘Based on those flowers you just made?’ Mark felt Gary’s nervous laugh against his skin. Again, there was that shyness that Mark loved so much. ‘I don’t think you’ve got a choice, mate. C’mon. You can do it.’

The intimate position they were in almost made Mark forget the baking competition altogether. It made him want to stick out his bum like a slag, but then the smell of fresh cupcakes hit him like a wave, and he remembered with great regret what he was here to do.

Mark understood the value of keeping his fans and supports happy, and he had worked hard to satisfy everyone. Failing just wouldn’t do.

‘If you say so, Mr. Barlow.’ Mark didn’t have to say anything else. Emboldened by Gary’s words, he continued doing his thing.

Having Gary so close helped. Suddenly, Mark didn’t feel in the least bit nervous or worried that he was going to mess up his bakes. The flowers were beginning to take shape. They looked like roses. Others resembled fragile tulips, apt to fall apart at the touch. The smell of red velvet cupcakes was sweet and tangy, almost overwhelmingly so. Gary’s blue sugar cookies didn’t look as terrible now that his royal icing had turned hard and sticky. They were getting somewhere here!

Reignited with new fire and ambition, Mark was starting to imagine a world in which he’d win the competition. All of it. He’d be able to come home with his head held high, a beautiful glass trophy in his right hand and one of his spectacular bakes in the other. He’d release a cookbook on the back of it and be taken seriously as both a singer-songwriter and a connoisseur of good food.

‘I wish you’d let me watch you bake more often,’ Gary whispered. No more nervous edges.

‘You know I don’t mind when you watch me, Gaz.’

Gary suddenly remembered something that must have been extremely enjoyable. He let out a knowing laugh. ‘Oh, I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed . . .’

If it was possible for the two of them to be even closer, then Gary had managed it. Mark could now feel him breathe in and out against his neck, and the urge to continue what he started that morning, when he dipped his fingers into his bowl and _sucked_ , was getting stronger and stronger. Mark let out a shaky breath and leant his hands against the kitchen counter for support, neglecting his work. He felt a familiar shiver of excitement run through him when Gary rubbed his thumb over his stomach. ‘I bet you get hard just seein’ me like this.’

Gary would not confirm or deny this. He just hummed. ‘Be better if it was just you in your apron, though.’

‘That might get messy, Mr. Barlow.’

This comment was enough to make Gary slide his hands inside the front of Mark’s trousers and _squeeze_. He could feel Mark tense up in front of him, and another squeeze elicited a scandalous little moan that made Gary’s head spin before he huskily forced his next words out of his mouth. ‘Isn’t that the point, though, Mark?’ He waited for Mark to relax his body against him. He glanced at the clock on the oven display; seven minutes left. ‘How ‘bout I get these trousers off of you, eh?’

‘Will we be done on time to get me cupcakes out of the oven?’ Mark asked, willing but still practical.

Gary laughed at this. ‘Knowing you? Probably, mate.’

Mark gave a short nod, as if to say that was a fair comment, and they spoke no more. Gary pulled down Mark’s pyjama trousers and boxers as he had done so many times, with gentle but determined hands, and suddenly Mark was half naked, with only his apron to cover his dignity. It was a hot sight: Mark’s arse, naked and bare, and perfectly pert, and then that red apron and soft cotton shirt, framing it all quite expertly.

It was so titillating that Gary didn’t even bother taking the rest of Mark’s clothes off, and Mark didn’t bother to step out his trousers. They preferred fucking each other like this sometimes, with their clothes still half on their bodies; the cotton texture of their winter coats or wool scarfs rubbing up against each other’s exposed cocks. Gary came quicker when Mark had his scarf still on, and Mark liked Gary better when he could hold on to a wet dress shirt slicked with sweat.

Privately, Gary made a mental note to ask Mark to do half-naked baking more often.

The rest was as excellent as they dared make it. Gary slowly sank onto his knees on the laminate floor and started eating Mark out.

The clock on the oven display kept ticking in the background.

Gary kissed. He used his tongue. His hands were on Mark’s arse, fingers played, spreading those pretty little arsecheeks wide. He savoured the taste of Mark’s body as he spat on Mark’s perineum and licked softly — but hard enough to make Mark feel the rough scruff of Gary’s stubble against his skin.

Things quickly got better. Every now and then, Gary would replace his tongue with one of his fingers and push inside slowly, gently. Mark would always moan at that, and Gary always loved to hear him do it. To hear Mark moan was the sexiest sound there was. Then Gary would add another finger, enough to stretch Mark’s tight skin and push in and out, in and out, and Mark was forced to utter a lot more than just a moan.

Mark hardly ever swore, but he did when Gary was fingerfucking him right.

Two fingers became three. Mark gave a needy gasp as he pushed back. A desperate fire was ignited inside of him, and he felt prickles of lust and desire all over. He moved and writhed along with Gary’s perfect fingers as the need to feel Gary inside of him properly became stronger than ever.

His own hands were on the edge of the kitchen counter, clutching it tight. He could hardly bear to touch his decorative flowers anymore.

Mark’s cock rubbed up against the inside of his apron with each move Gary made. Tantalising friction was starting to build up in the pit of his stomach. A thin trail of pre-cum dribbled down the tip of his cock, wetting his apron, and he knew he was close. Too close.

Gary just kept going.

The kitchen was becoming overwhelmingly hot. The smell of burnt cupcakes alternated with the whiffs of Gary’s dizzying aftershave. The baking competition that Mark was previously so ridiculously worried about had become no more than a fleck of dirt in his periphery. 

Another rub of Gary’s stubble against his arse nearly knocked Mark over the edge. It was everything he wanted: Mark himself, naked, slutty, his arse sticking out; Gary on the floor on his knees, pleasuring him until Mark would feel brave enough to beg him to take him. Right there, bent over against the kitchen counter, with Gary’s trousers round his ankles; black t-shirt still on. Mark would come quickly but quietly inside his apron. And after, they’d kiss the cum and batter off each other’s bodies and laugh, hard, at how brilliantly preposterous having sex in the kitchen was.

They would probably have done all this and more if Mark’s cupcakes hadn’t exploded in the middle of the oven.

_Splat!_ The scent of burnt cupcakes hit their nostrils, and both men stopped what they were doing to stare at the oven. The inside of the oven was absolutely _covered_ in sticky batter as though an explosion had taken place. It made for quite a humorous sight; so much so that the only thing the men could do was burst out in laughter.  

Mark was the first to lose it. His sudden laughs sounded like a goose high on marihuana, infectiously so, and Gary quickly followed suit with his high-pitched wheezes. They laughed and laughed until the air ran out of their lungs. It made their bellies hurt. Happy tears ran down their cheeks. They tried to speak in between laughs, but no sound came out.

How stupid was this, exploding cupcakes! And having sex in the middle of it!

Eventually, their laughter ran dry. Still half-kneeling on the floor, Gary rubbed his pleasantly aching belly while Mark wiped the tears from his eyes and awkwardly pulled up his pyjama trousers and boxers. Then he saw Gary on the kitchen floor, with his red cheeks and swollen lips, and almost lost it again.

The men shared a brief, mischievous grin in silence, and they felt love and joy all over. For only the fiftieth time that week, they were again reminded why they so loved being together. The fact that they could go from being completely sexual to being two infatuated little dorks in just the split of a second was everything they needed in life. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

Mark quickly became more serious when his gaze fell on the ruined oven. The kitchen appliance was technically still intact, but the inside looked like it would take three years to scrub clean. He wasn’t sure that had ever happened in the history of baking, ever.

‘I can’t believe that happened,’ Mark said as much. He scratched the back of his head. ‘D’you think I got the recipe wrong? I must have gotten the recipe wrong.’

Here, Mark gave Gary a worrying look that was nothing like the deliciously orgasmic expression he had sported earlier. It was a _sad_ look. In other words, it did not suit him at all.

Like a dark cloud on a sunny day, Mark had gone back to being the anxious, nervous baker Gary had joined in the kitchen that morning. Unprovoked, Mark started peppering Gary with a million rhetoric questions, each more ridiculous than the last: ‘What if this is a sign, Gaz? What if I need to pull out of the competition? What if — what if I’m just not good enough? What if this was a really bad idea?’

‘Oh, _Mark_. Of _course_ it’s not a sign, mate.’ Gary got up from the floor then, struggling slightly, and planted a kiss on Mark’s forehead that surpassed almost everything they’d done earlier.

Mark closed his eyes at the contact, and Gary waited for him to release that familiar breath of relief that told him everything was going to be all right. ‘You’re not going to pull out, all right, mate? I’m not letting you.’

Mark looked up into Gary’s eyes. Even now, several years into their relationship, he could still not quite get over the fact that Gary was capable of evoking so many emotions in him in such a short period of time: relief, anger, annoyance, lust (a lot of lust), but also sheer comfort. With Gary, Mark never had to be afraid of anything.

Maybe Gary had been right from the start; maybe Mark _was_ putting too much time and effort into this and not simply enjoying what was essentially just an afternoon out. This _was_ just for charity, after all. It wasn’t like Howard making a TV show about cars or Gary’s foray into the world of musicals; there was nothing at stake here, and even if there was then people would just forget about it anyway.

Mark let out a deep breath. He tried to focus on the tingle that still lingered on his body; the smell of red velvet cupcakes he could still bring to mind if he concentrated. It did not make him feel less nervous, but the competition did feel less important, somehow. At the end of the day, it was just for charity.

‘I’m so sorry for overreacting, Gaz.’ Mark composed himself as best as he could. ‘Like I said, I just don’t wanna get it wrong.’

‘You won’t. And anyway, it’ll make good television, your cupcakes exploding. We might even get a record sale or two out of it!’

Mark rolled his eyes at that. Of course Gary was going to think about something as unimportant as _that_! ‘It’s for _charity_ , Gaz. I’m not even supposed to mention we have a new record out.’

‘I’m sure there are some ways around that.’

Mark gave Gary a familiar poke with his finger. ‘I’m not making Alice in Wonderland cakes, Gary! We’ve discussed this.’

‘Not even a small cupcake?’

Mark gave an amused shake of his head as though he could not believe they were having this discussion again.

Instead of _again_ explaining why he refused to make a cake of the Mad Hatter, Mark finally dared to look at their kitchen again. It looked rather like a mess.

‘We should probably clean the oven before starting over,’ Mark thought out loud. ‘Maybe get rid of those flowers too. And your royal icing’s not that great to be honest, Gaz. I know you tried.’

Gary’s face fell a little. He actually felt himself shiver as he smiled, nervously, at all these suggestions. ‘Start over? But we’ve already been at it for two hours! I was hoping we could take a break, to be honest.’ Here, Gary pronounced ‘take a break’ very suggestively so that Mark would know he was talking about rimming and shagging, roughly in that order.

But Mark stubbornly tilted his head to the side. ‘I’m not gonna let you finish fucking me until I’ve tasted at least one cupcake, Mr. Barlow.’

Mark then demonstratively opened a cupboard that stored their cleaning products, and Gary had no choice but to shrug in agreement and comply.

Together, the boys scrubbed the inside of the oven and worked tirelessly through the rest of the morning to prepare twelve beautifully decorated red velvet cupcakes. They tasted of chocolate and almond, but it was nothing compared to the sugar rush that came later, when Gary went back on his knees on the floor.

Mark didn’t win the competition, but he did come first that morning.


End file.
